


Not Alone Not Done For

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Hooking Me [1]
Category: Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Blood, First Kiss, Gore, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: I received a prompt for a drabble with "Smee" and "kiss" as prompts. I rather let it get away from me somewhat. The formatting is standard for RP blogs, so if it bothers you, don't read it!Hook is bloodied and exhausted when he drags himself ashore; Smee has never been happier to see him. Characters are book-inspired and informed, events set directly after the ending of Peter Pan (2003).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jas Hook RP Blog](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/250813) by dictionarywrites. 



Hook is bloodied and exhausted when he drags  
himself ashore.

Pieces of that awful beast cling in thick, filthy red  
to the soaked fabric of his white blouse, and the  
only blessing is that there is so much salt water  
burning in his nose and on his lips that it overwhelms  
the stench of it.

The CROCODILE, finally, is dead, his time quite  
up.

The skies above him are dark and grey and broody;  
Hook knows that despite his victory, Pan will now  
be alone in one of his little dens, crying that the children  
have left him - as they were always destined to. It  
doesn’t matter to Hook: he had allowed himself to  
drop right into the belly of the beast-

~~(old, alone, done for!)~~

\- and he has emerged the VICTOR.

He follows the light of the fire further up the shore,  
and as his boots make wet prints in the sand beneath  
him, he breathes in and takes in not the scent of  
sea salt nor the crocodile’s flesh and filth, but the  
heavy, sweetened scent of a honeyed boar roasting  
over a spit.

He arrives at the edge of the clearing, between the  
shadows of two palm trees, and he sees Smee rushing  
one way and then another, roasting vegetables and  
herbs over a smaller fire, letting the pig roast over  
the biggest one, and the flames illuminate the downcast  
faces of the crew.

The men all sit about cross-legged or leaning against  
trees, gathered together as if freezing despite the  
mildness of the evening, and they are nearly silent,  
mumbling words only when Smee responds to them.  
Hook is PLEASED to see him moving, straight-backed,  
bustling and keeping himself busy, feeding the men.

He keeps cracking the jokes the crew know him so  
very well for, engaging in wordplay Hook knows full  
well he doesn’t entirely understand, but the return  
he gets is monosyllabic, quiet, mumbled. He is trying  
ever so hard, but Hook can see the shake in his  
hands.

“Have you men been to a performance of KING LEAR in my absence?”

Every single head snaps towards him - every single  
head except Smee’s.

“This pathetic fallacy is meant to be of PAN’S,  
not ours.”

“My phallus ain’t pathetic, Cap’n,”  
says Smee, voice quavering and  
shaking in the grey air, and Hook can see his back  
stiff, his hands shaking. That draws laughter from the  
men, and Hook’s lip twitches despite the lowness of  
it - Hook is a literary man, however, and will allow  
for well-delivered puns even when they are at their  
most f i l t h y.

“We thought you was dead, Captain!”  
“That croc!”  
“You just- you just dropped-”  
“Is that ‘is blood?”  
“Did you kill him?”  
“What’s that-”

  
“BOYS!”

Hook grins at the back of Smee’s head as his boatswain  
claps his fat hands together, cutting through the barrage  
of questions like a hot knife through butter.

“You keep on cooking and I’ll take the captain back to the ship,  
get some clothes on him.  
This is a floggin’ PARTY, lads!”

Laughter and cheers ring up from the men, and Hook’s  
smile is QUITE genuine, warm, forgiving - he has  
the smile of a king looking fondly upon his subjects,  
despite the gore on his skin and the blood in his hair.

He walks towards the shore, where a small boat rests  
at the beach’s edge, ready to return them to the deck  
of the Jolly Roger. He unbuttons his blouse - his jacket  
he had had to leave behind him in the water, and his  
cravat is God knows where, so he bares his chest to the  
light sea air, dropping the shirt aside. This morning, it  
was crisp and white as a new sail - now every inch of it  
is soaked with the crocodile’s blood.

Kicking off his boots, his hands go to his belt - Hook has  
swam many times in the crystalline waters of Neverland,  
naked as the day he was born, but never has he been  
so confident of his safety in doing so.

“Captain!”

“Yes, Smee, give me one moment,  
I require a moment to absolve myself of this… gore.”

“Captain,”  
Smee says, this time more urgently, and Hook  
arches an eyebrow in surprise, turning to him and wondering  
what could possibly require such exigency.

Smee’s eyes are wide behind the glass of his circle  
spectacles, his lips parted as he stares at Hook’s face,  
and Hook allows his head to tilt several degrees to  
the right, displaying his perplexity with what grace is  
yet allowed a man who has clawed his way from within  
the scaled belly of a monster not two hours previous.

“Smee, what-”

“Captain,”  
Smee interrupts. Hook has never heard him  
interrupt before, and he stares wide-eyed, astonished.  
“I think you should call me Ed.”

A bizarre and sudden request, given the circumstances,  
but Hook has known this man for near three hundred  
years, now - a first name basis is not completely unthinkable  
given the privacy of the moment.

“If we are to utilize your Christian name,  
I shall not be calling you ED.

Edmund is your-”

Smee’s calloused, workman’s hands grip tightly at Hook’s  
waist, and he lets out a noise of startled surprise as the  
man pulls him closer; Smee’s dry, chapped lips taste of  
honey and caramelized onions from tasting the pot on  
the fire, and Hook feels his eyes close as he lets his  
boatswain kiss him.

He feels as he did when he was flying, early, feels the air  
about him rush in his ears as he fists his hand in the  
loose fabric at Smee’s collar, pulling the other man closer -  
he hears the sound of Smee’s waistcoat against his  
shirt, feels the slight coolness of his buttons against Hook’s  
belly and the wetness of Smee’s tongue against Hook’s  
lips, in his mouth, against his own tongue, and Smee’s  
hand is carded delicately in Hook’s hair and Hook can  
hear him breathing and hear his heartbeat and Smee is  
incandescently warm where he touches Hook and he  
grasps at him as if he will never let go, as if he is an achor  
and Hook is some steadfast bedrock, and never before  
has Hook been so blindingly aware of how he must bend  
to put his mouth on a level with Smee’s because he never  
has before and why, why has he never done this before,  
why has he never-

When they part, Hook draws in ragged breaths like a man  
near drowned, and he stares directly into Smee’s face and  
slowly, slowly, reaching up to put his hand about Smee’s  
wrist. Smee’s hand is still carded in his hair, despite its  
being damp and tangled and bloody, and Hook feels the  
meaty weight of Smee’s wrist under the pads of his fingers  
and his thumb.

“You’re blushing, Cap’n.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

Hook’s tongue wets his lips, tasting salt and honey and  
onions, and he feels the heated red in his cheeks too  
well to say anything further. Smee has a sort of giddy  
smile twisting his features, and under the thumb Hook  
has pressed to the pulsepoint of his wrist, Hook can  
feel his heart still speeding.

“And- James.”

The correction is soft, whispered on the air - Hook’s  
never kissed anyone and felt like that, felt like this, felt  
so utterly full of magic.

“I ain’t calling you James.”

“Well, you’re not to call me CAPTAIN.”

“I’m gonna call you Jim.”

“You shall not.”

“I shall so.”

Hook’s icy eyes flit over Smee’s face, studying his  
bright, excited grin, and he wonders why he has never  
thought of Smee like this, with his warmth shining  
from every part of him, with his lips marked by Hook’s  
own, with his hand in Hook’s hair and barely two inches  
between their chests.

“Let’s get you back onto the Roger, get you cleaned up.”

“I need to swim, there’s no hot water-”

“I’ll boil some.”

“The men-”

“They’ve got a whole pig to eat.”

“I-”

“I want to get you in the tub and wash your ‘air.  
Wouldn’t you like that?”

Hook could not hope to count the number of times in  
the past several decades that Smee has washed his hair,  
and yet for the first time it seems imbued with the greatest  
of significance. Hook feels like he has lost his balance,  
like he is floating somewhere in the ether without the  
barest hope of his direction.

“I dislike being interrupted, Edmund.”

Hook’s voice is slightly icy, and yet Smee’s grin grows  
ever wider.

“I’ll stop when you do what I say, Jim.  
Get in the flogging boat.”

Hook has never kissed a man before tonight. He had  
been vaguely aware that there were men who found  
themselves entranced by their fellows, yes (there are  
several such figures amongst his crew), but it had never  
occurred to him that he might himself be entranced by  
a man - and ever less entranced by SMEE.

But Smee, Smee, Smee—-

Hook leans, placing his hand on Smee’s neck and  
letting his thumb draw over the skin there, feeling  
Smee lean back slightly to allow Hook to lean over  
him, and then he sighs into Smee’s mouth as he  
kisses Hook back, harder, more tongue, more-

CONTROL.

“Onto the boat, then,”

Hook murmurs against Smee’s lips, finding himself  
in something of a daze, and he drops like a doll  
without strings onto the bench of the small  
rowboat.


End file.
